


Q is for QUENTIN who sank in a mire

by DrWorm



Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:22:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrWorm/pseuds/DrWorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentin's new room at Castle Whitespire needs to be cleaned out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Q is for QUENTIN who sank in a mire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Greekhoop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greekhoop/gifts).



> The title is taken from Edward Gorey's _The Gashlycrumb Tinies_.

Quentin tried to execute a quiet, unobtrusive knock, and immediately realized how dumb that was. As thick as the walls and doors all were, he’d never be heard. He tried again, this time pounding with the side of his hand to save his knuckles. His knocks resonated in the wood like the tollings of a bell. Then he took a step back and awkwardly wrapped his robe around him. He’d found it hanging inside his new wardrobe earlier in the week and figured it was his by inheritance. It was heavy and gilded and ornate, exactly the sort of thing Eliot would appreciate, except for the fact that it was so big it could easily have accommodated two of Quentin. Maybe three. Still, Whitespire was chilly at night, all the old stone supplying endless drafts and chills. Quentin tucked his hands under his armpits and rocked back onto his heels, then up onto his toes. He bounced on the balls of his feet a few times as he thought about knocking again.

He heard a faint clunking, as of a lock being drawn back. Quentin leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and heard the muffled sound of Fillory’s High King muttering to himself. “I swear to god, I am going to abolish these damn doors—” There was a grunt and the door to Eliot’s bedroom inched inward. Eliot squinted out of the darkness. “Sorry,” he said, his upper lip curling over his crooked teeth. “I had to throw on pants.” He raked his disheveled hair back with one hand; the other held a flickering candle, and its light made his face a mask of eerie shadows. “What’s up?”

Quentin’s mouth felt dry, his lips unpleasantly numb and stupid. “Um.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Quentin, seriously, it’s two a.m. Or whenever. How is it that this place is crawling with clocks, but I never know what time it is?” He sniffed and held the candle aloft so he could see down the corridor. All was still. “Anyway, what did you want?”

Quentin hugged himself a little tighter and tried to summon up some shred of heterosexual pride. When none appeared, he squared his shoulders and looked Eliot in the eye. “You,” he said.

 

 _One week earlier..._

“So, this is your room,” Eliot deadpanned. He pressed an ancient brass key into Quentin’s limp palm. Quentin gaped and Janet giggled. “Welcome to Castle Whitespire.”

“What am I supposed to do? Find the Ark of the Covenant in here?”

“To be fair,” Eliot said, “this place is way less organized. Although I wouldn’t mind having Harrison Ford looking for the Ark of my Covenant. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.”

“Harrison Ford, like ‘80s Harrison Ford? Or new millennium Harrison Ford?” Janet asked as she idly ran her hand over a chest of drawers. She grimaced when it came back dusty.

“Oh, either.” Eliot caught Quentin’s expression and gave him a sympathetic look. “But really, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Janet snorted. “Easy for him to say. His room wasn’t anything like as cluttered as the rest of ours.”

“Well, it had actually been lived in in the last century,” Eliot answered. An uncomfortable silence settled over the three of them at thought of Martin Chatwin's occupation of Fillory. Julia, meanwhile, plucked a grimy owl figurine from a nearby pile and, unperturbed, turned it over to examine the base. Uncomfortable silences had apparently become so intrinsic a part of Julia’s existence that she had developed an immunity.

“Are you sure that doesn’t freak you out?” Janet asked, not entirely dispelling the tension.

“It does, a little,” Eliot admitted. “But I’ll get over it. I owe it to the room.” He turned to Quentin. “No joke, it is what I have been waiting for all my life. It makes me feel like the Sun King.”

“And I’m happy for you. But right now I’d rather settle the little matter of the junk pile that is supposed to be _my_ room.”

“It didn’t really take that long to clear ours out,” Janet said with a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder to indicate Julia, who had wormed her way in deep enough that all they could see of her was the back of her head. “You get the minions to help. It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t call them minions.”

“What should I call them? ‘Minions’ is better than ‘servants.’”

Eliot considered this. “’Subjects’ is probably the least stupid-sounding.”

“I’d prefer having minions to having subjects.”

“Well, so long as you don’t call them that to their faces.”

“This is all just fascinating,” Quentin interrupted. “But I’d kind of like to know where I’m supposed to sleep tonight?”

“There is a bed over here,” Julia called out. “But we would have to get the lion out of it first.”

The other three picked their way through the maze to where Julia was standing. Sure enough, a massive stuffed lion, its fur sadly decaying around the eyes, had been stored on the bed. “Well,” Eliot said after a moment, “at least it isn’t under the covers.”

“So, Janet.” Quentin flashed he what he hoped was a winsome smile. “How do you feel about doubling up for a few nights?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not real positive. You know, we’re trying to maintain a sense of professionalism around here.”

“What does that mean?”

“That you aren’t shacking up with Janet or Julia,” Eliot explained flatly.

“But—and forgive the assumption—shacking up with you would be perfectly OK?”

“Basically, yes.”

Quentin nodded. “Right. I’m not sure where to start pointing out how—”

“Ridiculous it is? Sure.” Eliot sighed. “Sometimes Fillory is a little too much like home.”

“God, don’t get so maudlin.” Janet pinched Eliot’s arm and then, when he jumped, linked her own arm in his like a Victorian matron. “They just have a little ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it comes to their royalty.”

“And they get antsy about the kings and queens having sex with each other,” Eliot said. “Don’t ask me why.”

“Heirs,” Julia said.

They all stared at her. When she didn’t continue, Janet cleared her throat and said, “You mean, like, us having babies? With each other?”

“A royal family,” Julia mused softly. “The future.” She stared down at her hands, concentrating intently on removing a bit of crud from beneath one fingernail. “But you may have whatever dalliances you like, provided you do not acknowledge them.”

“Fantastic,” Quentin said, raising an eyebrow at Eliot. “So my choice is between you and the lion?”

“Well, I _am_ the better cuddler.” Eliot glanced at the lion. “Probably.”

“So long as I don’t wake up sticky and traumatized.”

Eliot pushed Janet away from him. “Fuck you, Quentin,” he said a strained voice. Everyone went still at the sudden change in his tone, and Quentin averted his eyes. “Can’t you just—ah, hell!” He’d taken a step back and his hip had bumped a precariously balanced vase. Julia’s hand shot out and caught it before it could fall. “Christ, OK, I get the point,” he said, apparently to the vase. “Can we get out of here before I start breaking shit?”

They all obediently trooped out after Eliot. Julia was the only one who managed not to jostle anything, and the short trip was broken up repeatedly by breathy exclamations of surprise, muttered swearing, and one echoing crash when Quentin’s elbow knocked over a stack of ledgers that toppled before anyone could catch them. Once they were safely back in the hall, Janet sneezed three times and Eliot thumped at his jacket, brushing away any lingering dust. He looked faintly embarrassed and wouldn’t meet Quentin’s eye. “So,” Quentin finally ventured. “Roomies, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, sounding tired. “I’ll have them make up a bed on one of the couches or something.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Right now, I’m going to get a drink.”

“I’ll come.” Janet went to his side, ever loyal, and gave Quentin a stern look as she did so. They took an adjoining corridor on the right, and were gone.

“You should not tease him,” Julia said.

“It was just a joke. He always jokes about that sort of stuff.”

“He does. But maybe he does not want you to joke.”

Quentin felt, suddenly, the magnitude of the changes that had taken place since the first time he and Eliot and Janet had come to Fillory. “He’s the first gay guy I ever met.”

Julia fixed him with a critical eye. “Untrue.”

“What?”

“Trevor Metcalf,” she said. “Remember?”

He stared at her as he struggled to turn back his mental clock back to the time before Brakebills. “Trevor was gay?”

“Yes. And probably still is.”

The idea of all the people he had known before, had gone to high school with, progressing in their little lives, unaware of the magical worlds forever out of their reach, gave Quentin the creeping horrors. He shook his head. “Is there something wrong with me? I didn’t even know Eliot was actually gay until...” He trailed off, not wanting to share any details of his discovery in the observatory, and trusted Julia would understand.

She did. “You do not see that which falls beyond your own experience.” She was blunt, but Julia was always blunt, now. “You have gotten somewhat better than you used to be.”

“Thanks. I think.”

They spent a long moment regarding one another. Quentin searched his emotions, trying to feel something: grief for Alice, love for Julia, pangs of nostalgia for all the lives he’d left behind. He came out feeling stunted, unable to reach anything inside himself except ridiculous self-pity.

“Do you want to see the stables?” Julia asked, cocking her head.

“Sure.”

 

That evening, after a stiff dinner that found the kings and queens of Fillory struggling to find enough of their previous excitement to talk about plans for the immediate future, Quentin followed Eliot up to his suite. “Are you sure you don’t want to hang around downstairs?” Eliot asked. “You know, check out the library or something?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “I’m pretty exhausted.” When he worked it out, he realized that he had been awake for close to eighteen hours, thanks to the Fillorian jet lag. The suit he had worn to the office, back on Earth, was wrinkled and felt greasy against his skin.

Just as Eliot had said, his room was massive, rococo, and rich. A long lounge across from the—immense, swollen, canopied—bed had been outfitted with pillows and blankets. On the table beside the lounge was a neat stack of shirts and two pairs of the soft, medieval trouser-leggings that were apparently the height of style in Fillory.

Quentin washed and changed in the suite’s bathroom, and thanked Ember for the basic pipe system in use in the castle. When he came out, Eliot was sitting up in bed, still clothed, with a wineglass in one hand and a book in the other.

“Better?”

“In the morning, I might be human again.” Quentin laid down and settled the thick blankets over himself with a grateful sigh.

“Yeah.” Eliot tapped his finger against the side of his glass. “So, you know I would never assault you in your sleep, right?” The words came out in a rush, and it took Quentin several seconds to work out what Eliot was referring to.

“Uh-huh,” he said, then lifted his mouth away from the pillow so Eliot could understand him. “It was just a dumb joke.”

“Right. I mean, of course.”

“Good night, Eliot.”

“Night, Quentin.”

 

The next day, all four of them joined together to work on clearing out Quentin’s room. Janet’s gleeful minions dutifully hauled away the items they determined to be trash, while everything with value was sorted according to who would eventually take possession: the historians, the cartographers, the librarians, or Eliot, who was determined to build a cohesive collection of “royal gold sparkly shit,” as Janet put it.

At first, the whole endeavor was fun, a sort of treasure-slash-scavenger hunt through the historical artifacts of Fillory’s rich and storied past. But by early afternoon the novelty had worn thin, and they had begun to play games to keep themselves occupied.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with... Q.”

Janet and Eliot immediately pointed to Quentin, but Julia shook her head. Janet turned her finger on Eliot. “Queer?”

“No,” Julia said. Eliot batted Janet’s finger away with a harrumph and went back to excavating the chest he was elbows deep in.

Quentin looked around the room, slowly turning his head centimeter by centimeter. His eyes were unfocused and his mind was full of words that began with Q: quotidian, quixotic, quagmire, quarrel, quibble, quirk, quizzical, questing—“The Questing Beast,” he said, pointing to a threadbare tapestry on the wall. It depicted a band of four Fillorian hunters sneaking up behind the magnificent Beast, bows drawn.

Julia smiled faintly. “Very good, Quentin.” For a moment, he felt an old pleasure rear up inside of him, a love for Julia and her intelligence and the puzzles that smart people play to keep the world amusing. Even in Fillory, it seemed, such puzzles had their place.

“You know, I met the Questing Beast,” he said. “Its antlers weren’t that big.”

“Yeah, yeah, you met the Questing Beast,” Eliot grumbled. “Just take your turn.”

“I spy with my little eye...” Quentin began, sweeping his gaze thoughtfully across the room. Far out, by the window, there was the unmistakable form of a telescope. Quentin thought of the massive telescope at Brakebills, the cozy circle of the observatory, the orange armchair, and Eliot kneeling in front of another boy. “... something beginning with T.”

They guessed for almost fifteen minutes without getting it right, and in the end he had to point out the telescope to them and choose another object.

 

Quentin was forced to spend a second night in Eliot’s room, and this time he didn’t fall asleep so easily. He laid awake and tried to make himself deal with his life. He was back in Fillory. He was doing magic again. Julia was there. All of them had changed. Alice was dead. Was he at peace with that? Maybe. Maybe later he wouldn’t be. He wasn’t sure anymore.

He wanted to be liked again. He thought of Emily Greenstreet and felt a stab of pity for her. Things would be better this way, he decided, clutching the material of the blanket in his fist and then releasing it, fingering it gently. On Earth, he had been lost. In Fillory, he was a king.

Eliot was asleep, unseen amid the trappings of his bed. Quentin wondered whether Eliot had ever been in love with the boys he picked up at Brakebills. He didn’t think so. But maybe he didn’t know Eliot as well as he thought he did. And did he really know Janet or Julia anymore? Certainly not Julia.

For the first time in years Quentin felt a stab of resentment toward Eliot: for avoiding him during Quentin’s first year, yes, but also for never asking Quentin to be one of his boys. _Who’s here with you now?_ he thought, feeling petty and spiteful. _It’s not them._

 _But_ , a nasty voice in the back of his head pointed out, _it’s not Alice either. Or Penny or Josh or Richard or Anaïs. So what?_

 

His third night in Eliot’s room, he reminded himself that he would have said no if Eliot had ever come on to him.

 

By the fourth night, he had his own room and his own bed, _sans_ lion. He feared he’d be lonely in the big, empty room by himself. In fact, he found that he enjoyed the respite.

 

It wasn’t until the sixth night that he began to feel lonely.

 

***

 

Eliot opened the door wider. “Get in here,” he said, sounding harried rather than pleased.

Quentin obeyed, and went and stood by Eliot’s bed while Eliot drew the door shut. He waited for Eliot to follow him, but he didn’t. “So...” Quentin began, and Eliot sighed.

“Really, Quentin? Really?”

“What?”

“’What do you want?’ ‘You.’ My god, what a corny line.”

Quentin blinked. “Are you seriously giving me shit for my technique?”

“Yes, Quentin, I am.” Eliot took a couple of hesitant steps forward. “I mean, you can’t possibly be serious.”

“Why not?”

Eliot waved a hand in exasperation. “Look, I know you. And I know how hard it was to lose Alice—”

“This isn’t about Alice!”

“It’s all about Alice!” Eliot cried. “Maybe it’s always going to be a little bit about Alice!”

Quentin clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

“What don’t I know?” Eliot stepped forward, holding the candle in front of him like an offering. He was taking Quentin seriously now. It made Quentin feel a little bit like a failure; he hadn’t meant for this to be really serious, on any level. They were in Fillory. Life was good. “What is it I’m missing, Quentin?”

“I saw you,” Quentin said and stopped to swallow. “First year at Brakebills. I saw you in the observatory.”

He expected Eliot to react somehow, to yell at him or turn his back. But Eliot just nodded. “Right.”

“With another boy. You didn’t see me.”

Eliot pressed his lips into a thin line. “Yeah, well… thanks for not being an asshole about it, I guess.”

“But I always wondered,” Quentin said, curling his cold toes into the plush rug, “why didn’t you ask me?”

“Maybe you didn’t do it for me.”

That stung. “Really?”

“Yes, Quentin, _really_!” Eliot snarled. “Maybe I wasn’t looking to have sex with another loser just like me! I thought we were friends—”

“You barely talked to me that first year!” Quentin was bewildered.

Eliot set the candle down on the nightstand. “It was so long ago. Does it really even matter?” He looked at Quentin’s face and saw that, yes, it still did. “Fine,” he sighed. “The truth? I knew you’d say no.”

“I might not have.”

“Oh please. You would have pussied out and everything would have been awkward and messy later on.” He shrugged. “Sorry. You were insecure, but not quite insecure enough for me to take advantage of it. Which I would have felt creepy about anyway.”

“What about now?”

Eliot looked at him appraisingly. “Well, now you have the whole Julian Assange thing going on with your hair. I have to admit, it’s sort of growing on me.”

Quentin afforded him a half-smile. “Not quite what I meant.”

“Fine. Real answer? I still don’t think you’re actually into guys.” Even in the low light, Eliot’s melancholy expression was perfectly clear. “I think you’ve just missed being able to love other people.”

“I can’t tell you for sure that you’re wrong,” Quentin said slowly, fidgeting with the ties on the belt of his robe. “But I can’t tell you for sure that you’re right.”

“Would Cinderella like a kiss to see if the shoe fits?” Eliot asked as he slid up closer so that they were nearly touching. He spoke in a lilting sing-song, and Quentin thought he might have been using it to cover his own nervousness.

“I think you’ve got that fairy tale a little confused.”

“It’s entirely possible,” Eliot said. “Now, are we going to do this or what?”

“Go ahead,” Quentin said. He closed his eyes as Eliot leaned in.

No fireworks went off, but it certainly wasn’t unpleasant. It was more or less like the early kisses he’d shared with Alice, except for the slight rasp of Eliot’s chin against his. He and Eliot were nearly the same height, so neither had to stoop or cant his head at an awkward angle. The kiss was warm and safe, friendly and sincere. Quentin kissed back, and when Eliot pulled away, he tried to follow. Eliot put a hand on his cheek to stop him. “Huh,” he said.

Quentin slipped one hand shyly around Eliot’s waist. “Is that good or bad?”

“Neither, really.” Eliot moved his hand up into Quentin’s hair, pushing it back. “Just a general sort of ‘huh.’” He ran his hand over Quentin’s head, all the way back to the nape of his neck, and then kissed him again, a little harder. This time, he also thrust his hips forward against Quentin’s. Quentin made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, but when he went to step back, the backs of his knees hit the edge of Eliot’s bed and he fell back into the sinkhole of a feather mattress. Eliot landed on top of him and laughed sharply. He wasn’t all that heavy, so Quentin didn’t make any effort to shift him. In fact, the warm weight felt good on top of him, pinning him down.

Eliot made a flicking gesture with his thumb and forefinger and the candle sputtered and went out. In the darkness, they moved around one another on the bed, until they were able to lie comfortably side by side. Eliot tucked his head into the crook of Quentin’s neck and pushed one knee between Quentin’s thighs. He let his hands trail down Quentin’s sides and then over his stomach. Quentin, for lack of a better option, put his hands on Eliot’s ass and rocked him closer.

It couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen minutes, but it felt longer, slow and sleepy and unhurried. He came first, over Eliot’s hand and chest, and kissed Eliot’s neck lazily as he followed. Then Eliot stripped off his soiled shirt and the trousers that had gotten shoved down low on his hips. He threw them down to the foot of the bed, then pulled the blanket over both of them. Before Quentin realized it, he was asleep.

 

When he woke, the sun was shining through the open drapes and Eliot was sitting up in bed wearing his dressing gown and looking over a sheaf of papers with the royal seal on them. “Hey,” Quentin said.

“And a good morning to you,” Eliot said, setting aside his kingly duties for the moment. They stared at each other. “Satisfied?” Eliot asked.

“Yeah,” Quentin said and sat up with a yawn. “Pretty satisfied.”

“Good.” Eliot hesitated. “You should probably get back to your room now, though.”

“Right,” Quentin murmured as he navigated his way out of Eliot’s bed. He found his robe draped over the back of the chair next to the lounge where he’d bedded down the previous week. “Dalliances, and all that.”

“Dalliances,” Eliot repeated. He smiled, showing his snaggleteeth. “It wasn’t bad, Quentin.”

It had lacked the intensity, the emotion that Quentin had seen in Eliot in the observatory. But then, maybe things were different now. Maybe that wasn’t what Eliot wanted anymore. Maybe it wasn’t what he needed. “No,” Quentin said, “it wasn’t bad.” He wrapped himself up in the oversize robe. “Maybe we can do it again. Sometime.”

Eliot waved him away. “Go,” he said, with royal imperiousness.

“You can’t order me around like that.”

“I’m the king, I can do whatever I want,” Eliot said, using his best Jeremy Irons voice.

Quentin grinned and stopped at the door. “See you at breakfast.”

Eliot didn’t look up from his papers. “See you.”


End file.
